


Diurnal Dreaming #16: Danger Pay

by maven



Series: Diurnal Dreaming [16]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maven/pseuds/maven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A change in relationship leads to an evaluation of priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diurnal Dreaming #16: Danger Pay

**Author's Note:**

> This series is mainly canon up to the end of Season 5. Everything after that is in the vague realm of "didn't happen"... sort of like the sequels to the Matrix and Star Wars 1-3.

The phone chirps the opening bar of ABBA's Dancing Queen at me. I check my mirrors and blind spots before I press the button. It's been duelling cell phone statistics with Lindsey and I don't need a fender bender to add to her ammunition.

"Sidle." Even though it's 99% likely to be Catherine it's that 1% chance it's someone borrowing her phone that prevents me from a more informal greeting.

"Hey, sexy." Catherine, on the other hand, has no such problem.

"Hey. Anything particular you want for your supper?"

"That's why I called. Can you head straight to a scene?"

I pull into a handy strip mall and park, pulling out my PDA and stylus. Heading direct to the scene is unusual but not unheard of. Usually it only happens when it's a high profile case or very messy. "What we got?"

She reads off a Spanish Trails address that I recognize as being one of the high-end gated communities where the doghouses cost more than Catherine's home. "Security reported an alarm but by the time they got there the bad guys were gone. LVPD will meet you there. I'm not sure who the detective in charge is going to be. You got everything or do you need Greg to drop you off more supplies?"

I think. "Nah, I have a full kit. If I need more I'll call in. Umm, Nancy and Lindsey are okay?" Although Catherine has reassured me several times that a midweek "weekend" together isn't imposing on Nancy or traumatizing Lindsey I'm still wary.

"They're fine with this, Sara. Anything else?"

I sigh. "Nope. See you at my place after shift?"

"Count on it. I'll call you to say goodnight from there."

With the shifts aligned as they are we barely see each other except in passing, I'm usually heading to bed just as she is about to get Lindsey ready for school. Catherine started the call to say goodnight ritual, claiming that it was simply another point of contact. I suspect that it also assured her I wasn't staying up all night.

"Hey, maybe it'll be a quick process and I'll be back at the labs before you leave."

She laughs. "A fifty-eight hundred square feet house? Not a chance. But Sidle?"

"Yessssss?"

"You'd better be walking through the door a half hour after shift end."

My throat goes dry and I have to clear it before my voice returns.

"Oh, yeah," I manage. "Better get going. Catch you later."

"Count on it."

+++++

The house is a sprawling, one story monument to conspicuous yet tasteful consumption. The house of someone who actually worked, but not too hard, for their money. It has more lawn surrounding it than the first three holes of most golf courses in an attempt to turn Nevada into New England.

I pull up behind the LVPD cruiser and the private security cars and look around the front. The garage doors are open; Lexus SUV for the family, a Miata for fun, a third bay full of ATV and dirt bikes with two spots left over.

Cold fear washes over me when I realize that Lindsey is only a few years from getting her license.

I grab my kit, slip on my windbreaker and head to the front door. I give the bell a ring, listening to the chimes of Westminster Abbey, and look over the front grounds. Two security guards wander into sight and wave. I hope they've watched enough TV to know to stay away from the windows and doors and save me some elimination time on foot castings. One of them flicks away a cigarette and I figure not.

The door opens and I see two of Las Vega's finest, identical in their brown uniforms and crew cuts.

"Afternoon, ma'am," they chorus.

"Officers," I say, stepping inside and I'm glad I decided to grab my windbreaker. The house is cool with the air conditioning pushing the temperature down to the mid sixties.

"Ms Sidle," says the first, so young I hope he's a rookie, by the name of Baines, after a quick glance to my nametag.

"Ms Sidle," parrots the second, Davidson. He's older, but still younger than me, and he reminds me of Greg. "You got here fast from the labs."

"Rolled out from home." They don't seem too surprised that the response was expedited. "Much for me to do?" Hopefully the break-in is confined to one or two rooms leaving the rest of the house for a cursory walk through.

"Ground floor master bedroom and what looks like an office. Both security and us went through the place. No other signs but we're content enough to leave it to the expert to make sure," Davidson says with a smile. I don't blame him. If I had the choice between riding around in a cruiser or spending a couple of hours guarding a site I know which I'd choose.

"Let's do the bedroom first then."

+++++

The bedroom shows every sign of being ransacked. Drawers yanked out and the contents scattered, mattress half off the box spring, pictures askew on the walls. I take multiple shots of the empty jewelery trays and boxes.

"Home owners?"

"European vacation. They're due back today according to the security guys."

"Nice thing to come home to," I mutter. "I'll need them to come down to take elimination prints."

"No problem," the rookie agrees. Obviously he hasn't dealt with too many burgled homeowners yet. Insurance and replacement are often more important to them than actually catching the bad guys. And usually the more expensive the toys the harder it is to get them into the station.

I pull another set of prints off the drawer handles. There are surprisingly few prints to actually lift but it still takes over an hour to dust the room.

"They have a cleaning service?"

"Probably. No one in this subdivision would touch a mop," Davidson answers.

"Makes my job easier but I'll need their prints too."

"We'll get the info from the homeowners when they get back if security doesn't have it."

I look around and nod. I'll pick up the evidence markers when I'm done just in case I need to reshoot. "Office next."

The office is as trashed as the bedroom. Desk drawers have been dumped and I have to watch my step not to crush the scattered CD-ROMs and floppy disks. I start laying down the evidence markers, glancing around the room. It's a high tech wet dream that would make Archie cry in envy. One entire wall is a built in entertainment suite complete with a plasma screen taller than Lindsey and more DVDs than Blockbuster.

"That's weird," I say.

"What," Davidson asks.

"How long would you say this room is?"

Baines answers, "About fifteen feet."

"Right," I agree, turning and walking out, back to the bedroom. Davidson follows. "This one?"

"Same," Davidson answers.

"The corridor is at least forty," I say.

"Hey, did you see that Jodi Foster movie? About the room?" Davidson asks.

I'm about to answer when I hear it, the dull thud of something very heavy hitting something fragile.

"Don't move!"

Davidson has his hand on the butt of his service piece but freezes. There's a gun bigger than anything I've seen outside of Dirty Harry movies pointed at us. It fills my field of vision and it takes a few seconds to make out the person holding it and the still form of Baines lying at his feet.

"Now. You," the gunman says, pointing the gun at me briefly before turning back to Davidson, "cuff the cop."

"What?"

"Cuff the cop or I shoot him."

Time freezes. Behind the gunman I can see the plasma screen pivoted away from the wall and, behind it, a small room. Inside are a woman and two kids, all of whom I recognize from the many photos around the front foyer and bedroom. The woman is bleeding from a cut along her forehead. Her oldest son has a darkening bruise along his cheek and is looking at the gunman with a look of sheer hatred. The younger boy looks like he's trying very hard not to cry. Baines is still, lying on his stomach, a gash across the back of his skull.

"Come on, bitch. Cuff him or he dies."

I've never been more aware of the weapon on my belt. The gun that I take to the range every two weeks and empty a clip at the silhouette of a human being.

Davidson looks like he's considering trying something. "Hostages," I mutter softly when I realize he can't see into the room from his angle. "Mom and a couple of kids."

He nods once. "My left side of the belt, Ms Sidle."

I pull out the cuffs and click them around Davidson's left wrist. "Behind his back," directs the gunman. Davidson helps me out by sticking his right arm back.

"Right, on your knees, cop."

The gunman steps back, never taking his eyes off Davidson. "Cuff the other cop now. Behind his back."

I'm not a threat. I'm not a cop. My gender and, to be honest, my attitude at the moment are no threat to him.

"Now," he says.

Gently I cuff Baines. He's breathing, slow and even. The shallow cut on his skull is bleeding but not freely.

"Back off now," he orders, pointing to a spot next to Davidson. "Now, cop," he says as he presses the gun into Davidson' forehead, "I'm going to take your belt and if you try anything I'll shoot you and then one of the kids. Got it?" Davidson nods in agreement but everything about him -eyes, stance and clenched fists- yells defiance.

I hold my breath until the gunman has possession of both gun belts. Hopefully if he feels in control he'll relax. He roots through the pouches on the belt spilling extra clips, disposable handcuffs, latex gloves and other equipment onto the large desktop.

"Kid! The one with the shiner! C'mere."

His mother whimpers and tries to hold him back but he pulls free. "What?"

"Put this on her," the gunman says, handing the kid a zip tie disposable cuff.

The kid takes the disposable cuff, looking at the figure 8 of plastic in confusion.

"Here," I say, kneeling down and holding out my hands. "Slide them over and pull the ends."

He does so, tugging the zips tight. I give him a wink and he smiles slightly.

"Good job, brat," the gunman says, spinning the kid away with a shove. "Tighter though," he adds, giving the zips another yank.

I have two thoughts almost simultaneously. First, fuck what the company claims about the half-inch width, the plastic still cuts into your wrists. Second, and more importantly, my hands are in front.

+++++

The gunman spends the next twenty minutes getting everyone settled. He waffles between keeping the drapes open or closed and finally decides on open. Baines has regained conscious but is groggy and I know enough first aid to diagnose a concussion.

Any second now the gunman's going to figure out he has no plan.

The Kim Possible theme beeps on my cell phone and all eyes turn to me.

"What happens if you don't answer it?" the gunman asks on the second ring. I'm not fooled by his calm tone. I'm close enough to see the panic in his eyes.

"It's my step kid. She'll call her mom and I'll catch hell for not answering," I answer. I'm not sure why I'm lying but they seem to just flow from my mouth.

"Answer it but don't act cute. Try anything and I'll hurt one of the kids."

I fumble the phone off my belt, extra careful to keep the right side of my jacket from riding up too high. I manage to press the call button without dropping the phone.

"It's after eleven. Shouldn't you be in bed?" I ask without preamble.

"I'm in bed. Honest. You gotta help me!"

"I'm a little busy here."

"Please? It'll just take a minute and I forgot my text book at school and Aunt Nancy says if I come down again I'm grounded until I graduate."

The gunman, hell everyone, is staring at me. "Homework," I explain.

"Make it short and don't get any bright ideas," the gunman repeats.

I nod. "Okay. What's up?"

"Science. Elements. Bonus marks. I need to know the code names for silver, gold and iron."

"Ag, Au and Fe."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why? Why not S and G and I?"

"Latin. They used the Latin names," I say. I can see this turning into a rambling discussion on supposedly dead languages and how they should remain dead. "Linds. I can't talk right now. See you when I pick you up tomorrow."

"Ahhh…" she says in confusion.

"Dismissal bell at 4:44, right?"

Catherine's always on me to leave my work at work and turn off the scanner. Especially when Lindsay's with me. I usually forget.

"That's right," Lindsey says after a slight hesitation. "See you."

"Nah, that's copper," I hear myself say. Gun to my head and I'm cracking chemistry puns. "Go to sleep. Night."

"Night," Lindsey says. "Sara!"

"Yeah?" I say. This is the part where she says I'm her "grade saver".

"Love you," she says instead, voice slightly unsure.

A wave of relief washes through me. "Love you too, kiddo."

+++++

It takes all of ten minutes before Dancing Queen is playing on my phone.

"You know the drill, Miss Popularity. Short and no tricks."

"Sidle," I say. My hands are sweating so badly I nearly drop the phone. These things are a hell of a lot easier to manipulate with both hands free.

"Sara, it's Dad."

"Hey, Dad."

"I know you're at work but your mom thinks I'm out getting some milk. Hard to plan these things when you're both retired."

"And…" I prompt. I'm a little out at sea in this conversation. It's obvious he's worried about being overheard.

"Your mom's birthday. You going to be able to pick up the cake or shall I?"

"I'm not going to be able to pick it up. I ordered a large one in case the Kirkwoods drop by like they did last year."

C'mon. C'mon. Remember the case. Remember the name. Be the cop I know you are who hates loose ends and bastards getting off because they terrorized families.

"Yeah, Suzanna always has at least three pieces," he says, the name flowing without a pause and I realize again why I respect this man so much.

"So you can handle it?" I ask, voice tight.

"Piece of cake. Be careful at work, hun."

"I will, Dad. Love you."

"Love you, too."

I press the end call button and wonder at the relationship between tension, cheap puns and unsolicited declarations of love. With my hands tied I actually have to look at what I'm doing so I don't see the fist that hits me across the temple.

"What was that for?" yells Davidson. I'm seeing stars and comets at the moment and decide that the floor is a nice place to lie for a while.

"Because I can."

+++++

"Hey. You. Guy with the gun."

He glares at me. "What?"

"What do we call you?"

He stares at me, blinking a few times in confusion. "Smith," he says finally. "Call me Mr. Smith," he adds, stressing the 'mister'.

It's nearly a half hour since the phone call and over five hours since Catherine's original call. The whole situation is deteriorating as he …Smith… gets more agitated, Davidson more frustrated, the mom more terrified and the kids more restless.

"Okay, Mr. Smith. It's late. How about getting something for the kids to eat?"

"Why?"

"Because the more comfortable we are the easier we are to control."

He thinks this over while Davidson looks at me in amazement.

"Okay, kid with the black eye. Go get some food from the kitchen. You have five minutes or I'll hurt your mom. Understand?"

The kid nods and runs from the room. He's back within three minutes, arms full of boxes of crackers and a jar of peanut butter. Smith looks pleased that the kid ran so fast, is so scared. He leans against the desk with the gun held loosely in his hand.

My phone starts playing the Doors' People Are Strange. The gunman actually looks a little bored and makes a "go on" motion with the gun. I push the call button and then pick the phone up from the floor.

"Sidle."

"It's Grissom."

"My boss," I say to Smith. "Hey, Grissom."

"We've located the father but not the mother and two sons?"

"Yeah."

"Should we do the interview by phone or should I send in the… interview specialists?"

Frankly, I like the science homework questions a hell of a lot more than this one. I suspect that Grissom does too because the euphemism of 'interview specialists' to refer to the SWAT team is patently awkward Grissom-speak. "The first."

"Alright. I'm transferring this call to Dr. Verhandelt. You okay?"

"I've been better," I say and realize that maybe something has tipped off Smith because he's looking a lot less bored and a lot more interested in my conversation.

"Ms Sidle? This is Dr. Verhandelt of the Las Vegas Police Department, Special Operations," says a calm voice. "May I speak with him?"

"Yeah, sure." I drop my hands to my knees and look up. "It's for you," I say.

He takes the phone and, with his hands full, it's the gun that catches me. I'm prepared this time, rising so I take the hit more on the shoulder and roll with it as best I can, catching myself as I hit the floor on my hands. Which is a mistake as the ties cut into my wrists again.

"You told your kid you'd pick her up at 4:44," Davidson says.

"Code 4-4-4. Officer needs assistance. Emergency," says Baines, slurring his S's. I'm glad he didn't come out with it earlier.

"I think this qualifies," I say as I pick myself up. Standing I can see out the office window. I can't see the street in the dusk but there's a concentration of urban glow. I suppose they've decided that subtle is no longer necessary.

"Why the hell shouldn't I kill the hostages?" Smith demands into my phone. "Or one or two anyway."

I turn from the window to the gunman. He's got a point. I hope Verhandelt has a good reason. Personally, I'd shoot the pesky CSI.

The half of the conversation that I can hear doesn't sound promising. Smith doesn't seem to have an idea what he wants or what he can get away with and seems to be basing his demands on a Die Hard script rather than reality. He's resisting Verhandelt's obvious demands for some hostages to be released as good faith.

He lowers the phone to his side and looks around.

"They're going to make me kill one of you," he says calmly. He stares hard at Baines who peers back at him blurrily. I can see Davidson tense, as if he were about to launch himself bodily at Smith, full speed ahead, damn the handcuffs.

"That's a fallacious statement," I hear some moron say.

"What?" he asks, turning his attention to me.

"They can't make you do anything," I say, stressing the word 'make'. "They can refuse to meet some or all of your demands but that's a choice. You shooting us is a choice. Not a very bright choice," I add and then mentally kick myself as his eyes narrow. Major miscalculation, Sidle.

On television they're loud but not very loud. On the range they're loud but you're wearing ear protection.

At first I can't hear anything. Then there's screaming and yelling and crying. The only people standing are Smith and me.

Davidson is trying to get to Baines who is lying motionless except for a slight sculling motion by his right hand. The family are huddled, the mother crying and holding the screaming children down and under her.

The gun turns to me.

"I'm serious."

I resist the urge to laugh. "I get that. You didn't have to do that."

"I chose to, right? Don't make me do it again because I won't shoot one of the cops next time. Now, check him out," he orders, waving the gun from me to Baines. I hold up my hands but he shakes his head. "Just do the best you can."

The best I can is to determine that Baines is breathing and not bleeding. The family has calmed to quiet sobbing and whimpers. I'm trying to remain in the here and now but it's hard. "His vest caught it. He'll be okay," I say, pulling at his uniform shirt to try to ease it. He groans but seems to be unconscious. I stand, glancing around at my fellow hostages.

There's a flash in the mirror; a quick glimpse of something black moving in the half-light that signals the beginning of dawn. I hold my breath and see a man running at a crouch to a position by the large fruit tree. I blink and, when I look again, I can't spot him. I figure if I can see him, or could see him, he can see me so I slowly turn. Hopefully when he sees my nametag and the big "forensics" on my jacket he'll realize it's a mirror because it'd be really bad for him to put a take down shot into a mirror. A bit more than just seven years bad luck.

I feel oddly reassured by his presence even though there's no contact.

Outside I can hear yelling but no gunfire. "Good thing your department doesn't skimp on vests, Verhandelt," Smith says into the phone. "Now, Daddy can pay me three million for his family and your sheriff can pay three million for his cops."

There's a pause as he listens. "I'm not a terrorist, you moron! I'm a burglar turned kidnapper and I'm not screwing around here. Six million, a ride to the airport with my hostages and a plane south."

There's another pause. "You got an hour. Then you'll be paying me a three million for two cops and death benefits on a third. I got nothing to loose here."

+++++

The time passes slowly. The kids eat and the younger one actually falls asleep, a fact that seems to calm the mother and the older boy. Smith has gone all Western, sticking his gun into belt and playing with one of the collapsible batons.

He peaks out the window, using the stick to make a crack in the curtains and denying the tactical officers their shot. His imposed hour is nearly up and there's been no contact.

"Just surrender," I say, ignoring his orders to remain quiet. "No one's dead. No one's even hurt badly..."

The stick makes a whistle sound, catching me halfway between shoulder and elbow. I scream, falling to my knees, the nylon and light lining of my duty jacket doing nothing to protect me. It feels like the bone's broken although I know it's not. I know what that feels like and I ride the memory, looking up at my current tormentor but seeing my parents.

"Please," I mumble, "don't hit me. Please."

"This is wicked," he says, pleasure evident in his tone. He turns to Davidson. "How do you make it collapse again?"

"Bastard," yells Davidson. "Bite me."

I hear the whistle again and it catches me closer to the shoulder. I fall to my side, unable to scream this time, only make small noises, begging them to stop. I become slowly aware of the plastic band cutting into my wrist and a sharp pain above my temple where I impacted the floor. I miss the explanation and, when I finally managed to clear my eyes of tears, Smith is practicing opening and closing the stick and ignoring us.

"Sidle?"

"Yeah, Davidson," I say, hoping I don't crack a molar as I grind my teeth together to deal with the explosion of pain still erupting in my shoulder.

"Hang in there. If he tries that again I'll..."

I glare up at him, struggling to my knees despite the pain, and he recoils. I bring my hands up to push the hair from my eyes. "You'll let him hit me again, understand?"

"I thought... fuck, Sidle, I thought he'd broke you."

I grasp he means 'broke' in the cowboy way rather than medically. "Method... acting," I manage to grit out. I take a slow, shallow breath. "I can take this shit. Better he picks on me than the hostages or your partner. Remember the first rule: don't get dead."

"Yeah. I just want to get home to my girl," he mutters.

"Me too," I say, gaining some strength from the comedic widening of his eyes. "She's probably out there," I say, watching him practice with the stick. He brings it down on a chair back, shattering the wood. I know exactly what that would do to my head and suddenly I'm not positive that I'm going to be able to follow the first rule. Or, rather, I realize that my first rule has changed to 'don't let them get dead'. "Davidson, I need you to promise me something."

"What?"

"If you make it and I don't I nned you to find Catherine Willows, she's CSI. Say to her that I love her. But not like that. Say it as if you were me. Got it?"

"Fuck that, Sidle. First rule."

"Promise me," I hiss. Smith turns to me and I let the strength go so that when he meets my eyes he sees only defeat. He smiles, making a few cuts in the air with the stick. I don't need to fake my recoil. The phone rings and Smith turns from us.

"I promise," Davidson whispers.

I bow my head, closing my eyes to concentrate. I don't hear the words, just his tone. The tone of someone frustrated and desperate, a combination that never ends well.

"Listen carefully," I say, leaning as close to Davidson as I can. "On the left side of my belt is a leatherman. I want you to use it to cut my ties."

"What good will that do?"

"He didn't spot my gun."

Davidson tenses. "Jesus, Sidle."

"You block his line of sight. We can do this."

"But the negotiator..."

Suddenly my cell phone comes hurtling through the room to smash into a wall.

"I don't think that's going so well," I say with false calm. "The family and Baines need medical attention."

He nods and shifts carefully, feeling around my belt for the leatherman's holster. "Can you do it? If you have to?" he asks suddenly.

"All the way," I answer, echoing Catherine's answer from five years ago. She was right. If what you're fighting for is important it makes all the difference.

Davidson finally fumbles it open to the pliers' position by touch alone. Somehow he manages to get it into position as the bastard returns.

"Damn it," then gunman mutters, holding the gun loosely at his side. "One of you cops have another cell phone?"

Davidson freezes momentarily. "Just our radios. On the belts," he says as he clips the plastic tie and a good inch of my wrist. I bite my tongue to not cry out.

"I'm gonna have to kill one of you to get them serious. Do you think a dead cop or a dead woman would be more effective? I think one of the kids is going overboard."

I take a deep breath and pray to all the deities ever prayed to that I can draw the gun without it snagging on my jacket.

"Get down, Davidson," I hiss as I stand, draw and move a step sideways. "Drop it," I yell, the gun magically clearing the holster and jacket as Davidson half dives, half rolls to the floor. I take the classic two-handed stance I've practiced countless times at the range.

He freezes and for one instant I think he's going to actually drop it. "Or?" he asks.

"I don't want to shoot you," I say and it's true. I don't. But he brings the gun up instead and I squeeze my hand into a fist.

And it's over.

"Davidson?"

"Yeah, Sidle?" he says.

"What the fuck do I do now?"

"I… I'll go to the door. Let them in. You okay here?"

I've just shot, probably killed, a man. My shoulder feels like it's on fire and my hands are cramping. "Yeah. But hurry, okay?"

"It was a good shoot, Sidle. Don't worry about that," Davidson says. He turns to the eldest kid. "There's a key here on the desk. Let me out of these?"

Davidson and Baines are quickly freed of their cuffs.

The police come first, guns drawn as they move quickly from room to room. They call the all clear and the paramedics take over. One team crouches over the still form of Smith for a few minutes before standing and heading toward me. I wave them off.

"Ms Sidle?"

I turn and there's a tactical officer beside me. "I'm sorry," I say when I realize he's said my name several times.

"It's okay. Do you want me to take the weapon?"

I process the question, his expression and my response. I thumb the release and the clip slides down and I catch it automatically with my left hand. "I'll give it to the investigators directly. Can I go now?" I need to get out and this place is getting too loud and full.

He nods. "There'll be a trauma officer…"

I laugh, cutting it out abruptly. "S'okay. I have my shrink on speed dial." He looks at me oddly but lets me pass.

There's a ring of police cars, ambulances, Tahoes and fire vehicles at the bottom of the drive as we walk out. There are about fifty people in LVPD, fire and rescue uniforms as well as a score of detectives and CSIs in plain cloths and Kevlar vests.

I see only Catherine.

Greg, Grissom and Brass are standing protectively around her, either to shield her from the reporters or to prevent her from charging the building. The latter, I realize, when I see that Jim's hand is holding her elbow while Grissom is gripping her shoulder. I get half way down the drive before they release her and she runs toward me, crashing into me and nearly knocking me off my feet. She buries her face in my neck and I hug back one handed.

"Hey Gris, Greg," I say to Grissom as they approach. "Can you take this?" I ask, holding up my SIG by the trigger guard. Grissom holds an evidence bag up and I drop the clip into it before I let the gun slide off my finger.

"Sara," Greg says, voice a bit quavery and he has his autopsy face on. "I'm...," he pauses and nods. "House. I'll be in the house, Sara."

"Thank you, Greg." I'm not exactly sure what I'm thanking him for. He nods again and heads in.

"Hey, " I say to Brass. He smiles.

"Hey, Hun. Good job."

"Thanks, Dad."

He smiles again, briefly ruffling my hair as he follows Greg into the building. Today I'll allow it.

"Lindsey?" I ask. Catherine stops burrowing before answering but doesn't look up.

"She's fine. Jim is putting her up for a citizen citation. She didn't recognize the exact code but realized it was a police 400-code number so she called me. Jim was in the building."

"She's really okay?"

"Don't worry about Lindsey," she replies. "Just worry about her ego over being a hero."

I hold her for a few moments, forcing the noise and lights away. Finally I look over her shoulder at Grissom.

"GSR?" Grissom asks.

"It's been fired once. I think. Maybe twice," I say and Catherine squeezes so tight I'm afraid that she's going to crack ribs. I spread my hand.

He nods and crouches out of sight for a few seconds, securing the gun and getting out the GSR kit. Even when you know what happened it's nice to have evidence. Catherine is still burrowing into me and I feel her lower lip moving against my neck, repeating something over and over. It takes me a few seconds to figure the word out.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

"Yours," I whisper and she draws in a shuddering breath. Grissom's finished with my hand so I can hold her properly. I try to muffle the wince as the Kevlar rubs against my wrists.

"I thought I'd lost you. I thought..."

"Hey," I interrupt. Grissom stands, digital camera in hand, simply waiting. "I'm not going anywhere, remember? I owe you a dollar."

For a second I think she's going to cry, and I prepare to make the nonsense shushing noises she uses on Lindsey, but the shuddering gasps turn into muted laughter.

"Sidle!"

I feel Catherine start to withdraw and I tighten my grip briefly before letting her go. She takes a step back, hand trailing up my arm briefly before releasing me. Ecklie crosses the tape, heading straight for me. There's a swirl in the crowd and a group of reporters moves in like sharks smelling blood. I see Gil move back towards them and then turn my attention to Ecklie. Catherine steps a bit closer and spreads her hand across the small of my back. Despite this normally calming touch I cross by arms, hands high on my upper arm, in a defensive stance I'm too tired to temper.

"Yes, Mr. Ecklie?"

"Finally crossed the line, eh, Sidle?" He's projecting, voice loud enough to easily carry to the cameras and tape recorders, making sure the camera have a clear view of him taking charge. "Consider yourself on unpaid suspension while this is investigated. And expect charges when it's completed."

I suspect that I'm still on an adrenalin high because I seem to be able to keep track of the entire scene. I put the task of listening to Ecklie onto automatic and ignore the words for now. Behind Ecklie I see a forest of microphones all pointed in my direction. Gil says something I can't hear but several of the camera operators begin to adjust their lenses. A flicker of movement catches my attention as a SWAT cop approaches the sheriff and Davidson. They start toward us and I let Ecklie's speech enter the here and now.

"Trust me I'll be holding all your supervisors responsible for your actions in there. I knew you were a loose cannon but trusted Grissom and your," his voice turns a bit ugly, "girlfriend that you weren't totally psychotic."

I realize that maybe I let Catherine go too soon when she takes a half step toward him but I beat her, moving sideways to keep her behind me. She gives up on Ecklie and just lays her head between my shoulders.

"Yes, Mr. Ecklie," I say and I can feel Catherine banging her head against my back.

"Ms. Sidle," says the sheriff and Ecklie takes a step to the side and I can feel all of the camera's zooming in. "My officers have just been briefing me. Mr. Ecklie is correct that there will be investigation but I'm sure it'll be pro forma only." Ecklie actually preens. "Davidson here says you saved the lives of that family as well as himself and his partner. Dorsey was watching through the back window and confirms that the shooting was justified," He sticks out his hand and I take it automatically, noting that he makes sure the cameras have a good angle. Beside him Ecklie is looking stunned. I make sure I get a good look so I can describe it to Catherine. "Conrad, I'll see you in my office first thing tomorrow to discuss your performance just now."

The muffled laughter coming from behind me as the group moves off and Gil approaches.

"You should have those wrists seen to," he says.

"Is that what you said to the reporters?" I ask and he nods. "And they say you're bad at politics."

"I am. But your wrists were evidence and I'm excellent at evidence. I just pointed it out to the reporters. An educated press is an asset to our department. I'll need to finish processing you."

"I know."

"And then you need to give your statement."

"I know."

"Then you need to go home."

"I...Thanks."

"And take Catherine with you. Sofia said she'd cover for Catherine and both Nick and Warrick said they'd work a double to make up staff. They said it was on them and didn't count toward Catherine's deal. Whatever that means."

The adrenalin is gone and I sag, leaning against Catherine and letting myself be lead to a nearby cruiser. The car ride is mercifully short as Grissom elects to go to one of the nearer stations rather than the labs. Grissom takes shot after shot of my wrists and other assorted bruises. Catherine winces when I take off my jacket so he can take a picture of the bruising on my arm and shoulder. The deep blue seems to go nicely with the white tank top.

When the pictures are done Brass comes in with a paramedic. I try to ignore the pokes and prods as she cleans the scratches and puts a fibre strip on the cut rather than stitching while Brass takes a preliminary statement. Throughout it all Catherine stands behind me, hands light on my waist, head resting between my shoulder blades.

"Finished?" Catherine asks me when the paramedic starts packing the kit before leaving with Brass.

"Yeah, " I say as the door clicks shut and we're finally alone. "Catherine?"

"Yes, Sara?"

"Those words we feel but don't say?"

"Yes?" she says, kissing my spine through cotton before she scoots under my good shoulder, arm around my waist.

"When I was in there, I thought I was going to die, and I said them," I say. I'm nearly incoherent trying to make her understand. "I didn't want, I need to, God, Catherine, I lo..."

"No." She covers my mouth with her hand. I obediently shut up. "You know that you don't need or have to say them to me, right?"

I nod. "You want to say them?" she asks, slight smile curling her lips.

I nod. "Here and now?" she asks. I shake my head. Not here, in a strange police station.

"Then wait," she says, "until you can show me as well as tell me. And I can show you back. Okay?"

I kiss her fingers and nod.

"Good. Ready to go home?"

I raise an eyebrow questioningly and she removes her hand. I lace my fingers into hers and pull her even closer into my side. "Would it sound terribly sappy if I said I was home?"

"Very."

"Thought so," I say. I complete the connection, my arm around her back and hand resting on her shoulder. "But I am."

THE END


End file.
